


The Philosophy of Love

by Litsetaure



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Gay Relationship, Epistolary, Grindeldore Holiday Exchange, M/M, Prompt Fill, Young Albus Dumbledore, Young Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Litsetaure/pseuds/Litsetaure
Summary: Prompt:EpistolaryGothicCanon DivergenceWhen Albus receives a strange letter, he’s instantly drawn to the writer and the two strike up a correspondence. But secrets hide behind this mysterious stranger. Who is he really? And how does he know Albus so well?
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14
Collections: Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2020





	The Philosophy of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetiicdissonance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetiicdissonance/gifts).



The first letter arrived quite unexpectedly, when Albus was in the library. He had been partway through practicing the complicated wand movement for the Nebulus Charm, when he heard a strange sound further down the aisle. He looked around, but no one else seemed to have heard anything. Wondering if it was merely a hitherto unknown side effect of his charm, Albus reversed the spell and returned to his studies, idly sucking on a sherbet lemon as he tried to work.

But the noise did not disappear as the mist had. Instead, it seemed to grow stronger and louder, more potent. It sounded like music, but it was no song that Albus was familiar with. And yet, somehow, he felt as though he had known it all his life. It flew, almost targeted, towards him, through the walls that he had spent years so painstakingly building, and swept straight towards his heart, almost begging him to follow.

_Albus…Albus, I am here. Please come…find me, please find me. Please see me…see me…see me and know me…_

Unbidden tears pricked Albus’ eyes as he abandoned his essay and pushed back his chair, following the ethereal call. Once again, no one around him reacted to the scene, continuing with their own work as normal. No one even acknowledged their Head Boy walking, as if in a daze, towards the wide open windows. Had they done so, there would surely have been considerable concern, since Albus appeared as if he might decide to leap from the windowsill to the hard ground below.

But Albus, of course, did no such thing. He did not even climb into the window-seat. Instead, he came to a stop and just stared at the scene in front of him. But far from taking in the cloudless blue sky and trees whistling in the wind outside as they bathed in the warm summer sun, his attention was focused on what was in fact little more than a folded piece of parchment, floating in mid-air. There was no name on it, no identification, no seal binding it, and yet, somehow, Albus knew that it was meant for him, that this was what had been singing and calling out to him.

He bit his lip and reached out for it. But as he did so, something incredibly peculiar happened. His fingers almost passed straight through the parchment, only stopping to allow him to touch it at the last moment as it fell lightly into his hand, sending a light chill through his palm. At the same time, the music, that music which had called him to the window in the first place, suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a stiflingly chilly and almost deafening silence.

And yet, as he returned to his desk, his cheeks damp with tears that he could not recall shedding, Albus knew it was still there, still watching him. He might not be able to hear it, but he could feel it, somewhere inside him, tugging at his heart, as though it was trying to reach something that had long ago been locked away.

With his hands hidden beneath the table, Albus’ trembling fingers unfolded the paper and he looked down at it. At first, he thought it was blank, since he could see nothing, but then silvery letters began to slowly appear across the page, joining to form words written in a languid, flowing script.

_My dear Albus,_

_You do not know me as yet - or rather, you do, though you have not yet become aware of it - but rest assured that, if all is well, you will know me. I apologise if this epistle renders you in any way alarmed or distressed, but I feared that I could wait no longer to reach out to you._

_You see, Albus, you may not know me, but I know you. I have known you and seen you and waited for you. Oh, if you could only see how long I have waited and watched!_

_There was a time once, millennia ago, when all we had was each other. Each other, and our love - enough, I thought, for both of us. All we could possibly need - all I could possibly need. But then, as tragedy struck and carnage erupted around us, we lost each other. I found myself unable to bring us back together for so long, no matter how deeply I loved you - and how I still do so now. I could see you, as time ravaged these lands, living your life, but i could not reach you, no matter how hard I tried, how deeply I ached for you. I tried, but I never once succeeded - until now. So much time has passed, Albus. I am not the same man you left behind so long ago, not the same fool who you fired such painful, yet honest, words towards. I was arrogant and naive, but I refused to see it, to accept it, for far too long. And to be without you, it seemed, was my penance._

_Still, if you wish it, I shall once again leave you to your life and never invade upon your space again. In which case, you need simply ignore this letter - burn it, destroy it in any way that you deem fit. I swear to you, no matter what choice you make, no harm will come to you, this I shall make sure of. You will have, always, the protection and care that I failed to show you so long ago, even if it is only from a distance._

_I wish you all the good health and luck in the world. Should you have need of me, you must only think of me. Wherever you are, I will always find you._

Albus laid the parchment on his desk, his heart pounding. He felt as though he had just run a marathon, his breathing ragged and his skin warm and sticky with sweat. He was exhilarated, as though he was on the cusp of something wonderful, something that would change his life.

He wondered to himself why he did not feel more scared. After all, an anonymous, unsigned letter that appeared out of nowhere to almost hypnotise him was something that should, at the very least, be viewed with suspicion. Adding that to the use of language, being told that a stranger had been watching him for a long time - it would be easy to conclude that this man was not only a powerful wizard but also, at worst, a dangerous stalker.

But somehow, Albus knew that the writer of this letter was no stranger to him. They had known each other once, he felt sure of it, even if he didn’t fully understand how or when or why. The tone of the words, the emotion pouring from each sentence - it was all so real it was almost painful. Surely, there was no one could forge or manipulate that without leaving behind some sign or other.

Blowing out a long breath, Albus severed a strip of parchment from the bottom of one of his recently completed essays. He chewed on the ragged end of his quill for a few minutes before dipping it into a pot of purple ink and scratching out his message.

_My friend (somehow, such a term seems inadequate after reading your letter, but you have not left me a name, so I hardly know what to call you!)_

_Thank you kindly for your message. I will admit straight away that I have long been sceptical of such things that you wrote about. I thought that, surely if such a thing were possible, it would have been widely studied and discussed, as it is such a fascinating concept. But, to my knowledge, there has been so little that has been written that I dismissed it as nothing more than nebulous mythology or delusional rambling._

He stopped and grimaced at the last sentence, thinking that it sounded almost accusatory in its harshness.

“I hope I have not just accidentally called him a liar,” he fretted to himself. He reached for his wand, intending to wipe away those words and replace them with something that, while allowing him to admit his doubts, would not run the risk of being considered discourteous. But as he did so, he saw the purple ink shine up at him, almost warmly, as though it was backed by candlelight or a setting summer sun. It appeared to silently dare him to change his words. Stern though they may be, they were in fact the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth - and there was no room for any falsehoods here, even those told by omission.

Albus sighed to himself and picked up his quill again.

_However, reading your letter now, I can see that I may well be wrong about this. I cannot say that I can comprehend it as yet, but I am certainly interested to learn and understand more._

_I should also very much like to get to know you better. After all, I seem to be at something of a disadvantage if you know me, and yet I know nothing of you - not even your name! I wonder where you are from, what your interests, hopes and dreams are, even what your favourite colour might be. In case you were wondering, and my choice of ink did not give it away, mine is purple, with gold coming a close second. I absolutely love bright colours, but sadly I rarely have the opportunity to wear them. I have seen other men who have done so interrogated constantly about their affairs, and I cannot risk such questions being asked of me. It is even a risk for me to communicate with you; should these letters fall into the wrong hands, my reputation could be destroyed and my family would pay the consequences. I do hope and dream that, one day, I shall be able to dress as I like and correspond with whomever I wish with no thought nor care to what others may think, though I fear that such a day will be a long time in the future._

_Nonetheless, I shall wait with great anticipation for you to write back - hopefully then I will have a name to put with the writing!_

_Your friend,_

_Albus._

He nodded to himself and rolled the letter up into a tiny scroll, sealing it magically with the image of a phoenix. But as he was about to set it back down for sending off later, he noticed that the other letter was no longer an innocent sheet of parchment. Instead, it had somehow been folded into the shape of a ship - a trireme, to be precise. It was exceptionally detailed; Albus could see each plank of wood, and the three rows of oars were all perfectly decorated. Even the sail, plain though it was, seemed to glow with life, blowing in an invisible breeze.

“Merlin’s beard,” Albus whispered, almost breathless with shock. “This is quite stunning magic.”

He gasped a little as the intricately carved ram’s head on the prow of the ship bowed respectfully to him, his eyes focusing on the small scroll still resting in the palm of Albus’ hand.

“Oh,” Albus whispered, nodding, “oh, I see. Yes, of course - here, take it.” His fingers quivered as he placed the scroll carefully between the ram’s teeth. “Please...make sure your master...make sure he responds promptly.”

The ram’s head bowed once again. Slowly, the galley rose a few feet in the air and glided, as though on an invisible ocean, across the room and back towards the window. Albus followed it and watched it until it was nothing more than a small dot on the horizon. Once again, the strange music began to surround him, though very quietly, little more than a whisper on the wind, yet the call still felt so strong.

Albus nodded and smiled, even though a light mist of fresh tears. “I will find you one day. I promise.”

~*~

It was three days before the next correspondence from his mysterious friend arrived. This time, however, the missive was waiting on Albus’ bed, sitting in the middle of what he initially thought to be the same paper ship it had set sail in. However, on closer inspection, he realised that, while it looked entirely identical right down to the ridges in the ram’s horns, the boat was this time constructed from cedar and fir, with intricately carved fir oars. As for the sail, Albus thought it looked to be made of fine and fragile flax, but he was far more enraptured by how, right before his eyes, a cascade of a million different shades of blue poured over it, as though it was itself a part of the ocean, ever-changing, never still.

Albus felt his pulse quicken as he plucked out the scroll and unravelled it. The ship glided across the room, eventually coming to a rest on his desk, but he was too absorbed in the letter to notice.

_Dear Albus,_

_My true name is one that you will only know when the time is right. However, you are right to say that you should at least have something to call me by. So, for you, my name is Gellert. Gellert Grindelwald._

“Gellert...” Albus rolled the name around his mouth, testing it on his tongue. His stomach turned and swirled as though a kaleidoscope of butterflies had flown through. He shivered, but not in fear, rather in anticipation and joy. The name, Gellert, aroused a warmth and excitement in him, such that he could not recall having felt before.

_I am glad to have read that you are at least prepared to keep an open mind, even when it comes to an idea you may not understand very well. I know myself that this is not easy. Many times, I have buried myself in the sand - occasionally literally, I am ashamed to say - and refused to consider that what I believe or what I know may not be the only truth, or even the truth at all. Sometimes, when this has happened, my temper has overwhelmed me and I have lashed out, often with consequences that proved disastrous for me and, tragically, often for those I loved._

_But that is certainly a tale for another day. You are, as you said, at something of a disadvantage with how much I know of you and how little you know of me; however, this is something I shall start to rectify without delay. Starting with my favourite colour - there can be no doubt about it; it is unquestionably blue. I have spent many lifetimes growing up by the ocean, and the beautiful hues of the water smooth me and feel much like a balm on my blistered soul. I feel at one with the water, as though she is a part of me. However, I do also like the colour purple, just like the flowers that bloom near the sandy dunes of the beach. Perhaps this is another sign of our connection; our colours compliment each other so beautifully, as bold and magnificent as a peacock’s tail, or as gentle as a spring sunrise over the still sea. I wonder if, one day, you and I will be able to lie together and witness such a blessed moment. There is such a tender magic in the rising of a new day, watching a fresh dawn, with her fingers of rose, appear on the horizon._

_As for my interests, well. They are many and varied, but I cherish the histories and legends of our ancient times. Some may call these fairytales or myths, but to me, they are so much more. They are lessons that we can take from our past and learn so we may live for our future. After all, how can we hope to improve ourselves if we fail to heed the mistakes that those before us have made? We must learn from them, both the good things and the bad._

_In fact, I have of late developed a great admiration for several of our ancient comrades in philosophical discourse. For example, I trust that you are familiar with the works of Plato, specifically his Symposium? (What am I saying - naturally you are familiar with it!) I have found this work to be a fascinating discussion on the philosophy of love and all of its aspects, both the beautiful and the terrible. I am particularly intrigued by the concept of Love as an ancient orphaned god, devised in fact from the great force that is Chaos, but as Eryximachus himself describes in his speech, ‘Such a great god and so neglected!’ I feel that such a statement could well be read as a warning. Not simply a warning against ignoring and neglecting the gods, vindictive and harsh though they might be when they believe themselves wronged, but against dismissing the impact and the power of love itself. It is sad, but true I fear, that many have underestimated, or outright ignored, just how deeply love can change your mind - and your life._

_I wonder how you view this, Albus. Do you also believe that love is undervalued when it should be revered and cherished? Is it possible for love to change the world and how we see ourselves and those around us?_

_I await your response eagerly - please write back soon._

_Yours - Gellert._

Albus scattered all his books and possessions all over the floor and bed in his hurry to reply. A bottle of ink smashed onto the ground, but he was too excited to care. He found a crumpled roll of parchment and started to write feverishly, wanting to get his thoughts down as fast as possible.

_Gellert Grindelwald - what a wonderful name! I hope that it is not too strange for me to say that it fits you very well; it sounds mystical and yet strong. Somehow, it puts me in mind of an enchanted forest where knights might wander to enjoy some quiet solitude. Of course, considering your love of the water, there would be a great pool with cascading falls crashing into the crystal clear waters beneath._

_Of course I know of Plato’s Symposium! It is one of my best beloved pieces of ancient writing and, in my opinion, it cements Plato’s worth as a great philosopher. For me, it is a work that, on the surface, is played as a jovial, wine-drenched evening between friends. While it is true that there are elements of this, what lies beneath is in fact something far richer. (Also, can I comment on the irony that Plato in fact had a form of love - platonic love - named after him when he never used the term himself? It seems unusual, almost disrespectful, to associate a term too someone who never used it and who, if I recall correctly, harboured little belief for it either.)_

_I agree absolutely that the statement concerning Love as a god should be treated as a caution, however I am curious as to your words on this. Through my reading, I see that it is true to say that the ancient gods are portrayed as powerful, vengeful and even petty when wronged. However, I feel that you are speaking from a more personal experience. I wonder - how is this possible? Do you know that such accounts are in fact the truth and not simple mythologies, as many of our students and scholars have long believed? (And yet - how odd! Even as I wrote these words, a most peculiar sensation is coming over me, as though I should know the answer to such a question - no, not that I should know. That I already do know, somehow, though I have never borne witness to such a thing. What can this mean, Gellert? I wish so deeply to learn - and to understand!)_

_I am also fascinated by the claim that a man in love would be more devastated to be caught in a disgraceful situation by his lover than by his father, or even his friends! Perhaps it is because I have never had such a lover that I find this concept to be somewhat baffling. I suppose that it is a sign of the times in which Plato wrote and studied, but surely such a designation should be equally shared, in that you should never wish to be caught in such a quandary by anyone you care about! It bewilders me that a man should fear losing his love more than his family or his friends, unless he is in the tragic position of having no family or friends left. I wonder what your insight on this might be._

_That said, I feel such joy to see that the love between Achilles and Patroclus does not go unrecognised by Plato. Much as I have questioned Achilles’ lack of control over his temper, not to mention his displays of entitlement and immaturity, I cannot deny that his feelings of devotion for his closest comrade were genuine and true._

_However, I am not sure that I would consider Achilles’ act of vengeance to be courageous. Of course, his culture would speak of his prowess in battle with reverence and call his deeds great, but for me, his actions are tragic and heartbreaking. His grief for Patroclus turned into a bitter, unstoppable rage towards the man who had slain the one he loved. While I understand such a feeling, and cannot help but question if I would not react in the same way, what followed can surely not be justified or praised. In my eyes, Achilles’ mind had become so consumed by his renewed bloodlust that he lost sight of his own heart and soul, and the reason he agreed to return in the first place. In fact, as I recall, it took the ghost of Patroclus himself to remind him of his duties to the dead and to insist that he be buried with full honours and proper funeral games!_

_Tell me, Gellert, does that sound brave and commendable to you? Because it certainly does not sound so to me._

_Yours - Albus._

His breathing was harsh and ragged as he folded up his letter; he didn’t know what had come over him or why he felt so angry all of a sudden. It was not as though Gellert was responsible for the writing of the Symposium; those were Plato’s words, not his.

He briefly considered editing the last lines so that they might be slightly gentler, but something stopped him. It felt wrong for him to hide behind pretty politeness, and he was sure that Gellert would see straight through it in a moment. Besides, he wanted to hear, or read, Gellert’s own, unfiltered thoughts on the matter.

“And I cannot demand that of him and not give him the same in return,” he realised, placing the scroll beside Gellert’s letter - which, he noticed with a start of surprise, had now taken the form of a miniature dragon, with minuscule scales and rows of tiny sharp teeth in its slightly open jaws. It was like no dragon Albus could recall seeing, even in his Care of Magical Creatures textbooks, but it still looked alarmingly realistic and almost alive, ready to breath fire.

More than a little alarmed that the Head Boy’s quarters might end up at the mercy of a tiny paper dragon, Albus placed his scroll between its teeth and sent it on its way. He had just watched it disappear from view when the door flew open and two boys rushed into the room.

“Albus!” Elphias gasped. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Well, you can’t have looked very far or else you would have found me - I’ve only been here,” Albus quipped, but Elphias did not join in with the joke. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to go home.” Elphias came over and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Albus, it’s -”

“It’s Mum,” Aberforth cut in. “Miss Bagshot sent word to the Headmaster. There’s been...” he almost choked on the words, “an accident.”

Albus sat up straight and gripped the arms of his chair. “You mean...”

His brother nodded. “She’s dead, Albus. Mum’s gone.”

~*~

_One week later…_

In retrospect, Albus realised that he had been glad to not have had to give his mother’s eulogy. He had kept the truth of his feelings about her hidden for far too long. Of course, he knew that her lot in life had been far from easy, especially after seeing her daughter traumatised and losing her husband in the space of one day. For years now, Albus had tried to convince himself that she had done the best she could have with the limited help and resources available to her. He had told himself that her harsh, almost dictatorial at times, behaviour, her refusal to accept anything less than absolute perfection from him, was her way of trying to cope. Trying to show that, despite her situation, she was more than capable of raising her family, that there was absolutely nothing wrong with them.

But that had all come crashing down when he had sat down and actually tried to write about her, Aberforth having insisted that it was his duty as the eldest child to do so. Not having the energy to argue, Albus had agreed – only to find himself unable to write even a single positive memory about her. The drive she had tried to instill in him had resulted in a heart-stopping fear and anxiety should anything he do be flawed in any way. She had raised him up as the sole hope for his family, but in doing so, she had forced him to carry the burden, not only of being the son of a convict – meaning he had to work harder and harder to prove himself – but also of having to pick up the pieces of their shattered family and put them back together again, only stronger and better than before.

He had then tried to consider her independence – surely that was indeed a praiseworthy trait, and one that could certainly be attributed to her? But all he had been able to think of was the day when, in an effort to be neighbourly, Bathilda had come over with a freshly baked cake, to introduce herself, only to have the door slammed in her face. Albus had been mortified, not only by the appalling etiquette, but also became the woman was one of the most respected historians in the world. He had gone over instantly to apologise and the two had spent the next several hours happily discussing magical history, while they treated themselves to the still warm chocolate sponge cake.

He shook himself out of his musings and looked up at the grave in front of him. He traced the markings on the stone with his finger.

_Kendra Dumbledore. Wife, mother, daughter. 1861-1899._

There were no other words. No one had been able to find any that would fit.

Albus’ hand then trailed over the cool stone and down towards the ground beneath him. Had he been watching, he might not have been so surprised when his fingers brushed over something soft and dry with slightly rounded edges, very different to the damp grass and soil beneath the grave. His hand closed around it and he drew it out to look and see what it was.

What he held in his hands drew all the air from his lungs and caused his head to spin as he had fallen down several flights of Hogwarts’ moving staircases.

It was a small, beautifully formed, parchment rose, covered in soil, crumpled and damp. It had probably been there for a few days, but for Albus there could be no doubt what it meant. He looked around, ensuring that he was alone, and then very carefully smoothed out the petals, almost wincing as the dampest parts of the paper came away in his hands.

The letter was very short, and there were several smudges and blots on the parchment where water and dirt had invaded Gellert’s hastily written words:

_Albus – I am writing this as fast as I can, but I fear I am already too late. I wish I could have realised what the warning meant sooner so I might have been able to tell you and you might have been able to save your mother. If I am too late, then please accept my deepest sympathies and know that, should you need me, I will be –_

Albus scrunched up the paper and threw it aside, not wanting to read any further. His mother might have been dead, but he had no desire for sympathy from anyone, not even from Gellert. What was the point in sympathy if he did not even feel sad in the first place?

Soft footsteps behind him made him turn around, and he gasped in shock. “Ariana,” he whispered, forcing himself not to back away from her. “What are you…how did you…”

But his sister did not answer him. Instead, she sat down on the grass beside him and stared at the gravestone, her pale blue eyes focused entirely on her mother’s name.

As he watched her, Albus noticed, almost for the first time, just how drained she looked. Her face was white and exhausted, her long blonde hair tied back in a knotted ponytail that fell in rags and tangles down her back. She looked neat and clean, but he could not recall ever seeing anyone look so defeated and lost.

“I wanted to get out,” she whispered suddenly, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging herself tightly. “I just wanted to get out…I just wanted to…get…to get out…”

And with those words came the realisation of the final reason Albus felt unable to grieve his mother’s death. He knew she had lived in fear of Ariana’s condition being exposed and the Ministry consequently taking her away and locking her up, out of sight, forever. But then, under the guise of protecting her daughter, had she not done the same? Had she not shut her away, hidden her from view and trapped her inside the house, effectively rendering her a prisoner in her own home?

Albus sighed, remembering how he had once tried to convince his mother that it would be better for Ariana to at least have a little time outside where she could play. She would be supervised, if necessary, but she would have the chance to see the world beyond the four walls of their dilapidated house. Surely, he had said, it would improve her emotional wellbeing if she was allowed some freedom to experience life for herself.

His suggestion, however, had been angrily rejected by both his mother and his brother. Kendra had refused to consider such a proposition, furiously insisting that she knew perfectly well what was best for her daughter, and ordering Albus to never mention such an idea to her again.

At the same time, Aberforth had been livid. He had accused Albus of wanting to put their vulnerable and anxious sister in a situation that would further traumatise her. Albus had insisted that all he wanted to do was help her and that he would make sure she was kept safe and calm – only to be told to keep his nose out of things he could not hope to understand, and to leave Ariana’s care to the ones who truly knew her best.

Cautiously, Albus reached out and touched Ariana’s shoulder, brushing a few loose tangles of hair out of the way. She looked around sharply, almost wildly, but upon seeing that it was only her brother, she relaxed and even moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting out a sad little breath.

Albus was a little startled by the unprecedented show of affection from his little sister, but he knew better than to reject it. He wrapped his arm gently around her and stroked her back, swallowing a little as he heard her sniffle into his shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, Ari,” he whispered, gently stroking her hair. “You didn’t cause this.”

She didn’t speak for a few moments, but looked up and blinked slowly at him. She chewed on her lip as though she was struggling to find the right words. Then, she reached out and touched the gravestone, her eyes filling with fresh tears as she did so.

“Good…” she paused, cleared her throat a little, rubbed her face and tried again. “Good…bye? Goodbye?”

Somehow, Albus knew exactly what she was trying to say. He nodded, suddenly finding it hard to speak himself. “Yes,” he choked out, “yes, Ari. You can…you can say goodbye now.” He clamped down on a fresh surge of anger and hurt as a memory resurfaced of the sight of Ariana at her bedroom window watching the funeral proceedings from a distance. It galled him that she had been forbidden to attend the service, lest she draw attention to herself. She should have at least had the chance to say goodbye then and there, with her family around to comfort her.

Ariana blinked slowly again, then stood up and plucked four daisies from the grass. Three of them she placed very gently on top of the gravestone, but the fourth she dropped into Albus’ lap, running her hand over the top of his head as she turned away and walked back into the house.

~*~

In the middle of the night, Albus stirred and abruptly woke up. Even though he had left the windows open, the stifling heat hit him with the force of a Bludger. Rubbing his eyes, he climbed out of bed, throwing the covers onto the floor, and poured himself a large glass of water.

_“Frigida tecta!”_

A jet of white and silver light shot towards the glass, chilling the water inside. Albus gulped half of it down in one go and then splashed the rest over his face. He yelped at the chill that followed, but the refreshment was only momentary; the heat was so oppressive that the water dried almost immediately, leaving his skin clammy and stiff.

“Why is it so hot anyway?” Albus wondered to himself as he dried himself off. “It’s barely even summer as it is.”

He swallowed another glass of chilled water and then began to rummage through a chest of drawers for a clean nightshirt, his own being drenched with sweat. But as he did so, a strange scent drifted through the room towards him. He dropped the nightshirt he had been about to pick out and straightened up, his nostrils twitching. His mind felt tired and sluggish as he took in the unusual aroma. He could not remember ever having smelled such a thing before, and yet, almost immediately, he knew exactly what it was.

Closing his eyes, he breathed the warmth in, picturing a row of small fires running along a sandy beach, burning under a slowly setting sun and a darkening sky. Stars burst across the heavens above him, shining over the ocean like tiny droplets of silver and gold. The waves lapped gently against the shoreline, calm and quiet, occasionally knocking the armada of ships moored in the nearby cove. He couldn’t see anybody, but he could hear faint chatter and laughter carried along with tiny spirals of golden sand on the light evening breeze.

Albus opened his eyes and hurried to his window, knowing that something was out there, something special. If he could just get there in time, perhaps he might have a chance to see it - perhaps he would finally understand the mystery of who Gellert was. He was so close, he could almost taste it. 

But he was too late - the spell had broken the moment he had opened his eyes. Godric’s Hollow was now just as it had always been, calm and silent, save for an owl hooting in the tree nearby. The only sign that anything unusual might have happened came in the form of a new piece of parchment on Albus’ desk, fluttering slightly in the sweltering summer breeze. 

Albus feverishly lit a candle at his bedside and grabbed the letter before it could fly out of the window. He no longer felt uncomfortable and overheated; rather now he felt excitement course through his veins as he read Gellert’s letter.

_Dear Albus,_

_I was overwhelmed with joy when I read your last letter. I have, I confess, corresponded with many a great mind over the years, but no one’s words have given me such challenges as yours have. You enable me, once again, to examine what I have previously believed to be the truth, and then to look again to see what else may hide there. To do so has given me such pleasure, far more than I ever thought possible. You say that you desire to learn and understand, and yet, as you do so, you have also shown me that there is so much to me - so much more than I thought could be possible._

_I must admit to a chuckle at your question about how I know so much of the pettiness of the divine. Oh, Albus, when you have seen as much of the world as I have, you come to a realisation that there are those who watch over us, but who can condemn us just as easily as they can protect us. I have experienced this myself in some of the worst ways, and I think you have too, especially with recent events. You are growing in your knowledge and understanding, I see this every day. Some days, I wish I could pull you from your struggles and tell you everything, but I know I cannot. This is a journey you must undertake yourself. I can guide you, support you and love you, but it is forbidden for me to give you all the answers. (But please do not be angry - you are so close now! Soon, you will know the truth and, with that truth, you will know me.)_

_For many years, I thought as you do now. The idea of disgracing myself before my friends and family was the most unimaginably awful thing I could imagine. They would never, I thought, be able to look at me in the same way again; their respect and love was conditional on me never straying from the path of excellence. So, I went out of my way to ensure that I always conducted myself in such a way that would make them proud, forsaking any situation that might cause my brightness and grace to diminish in their eyes._

_I am sad to say, however, that when I found a love of my own, I was far less careful. You see, Albus, in him, I found someone who encouraged me to never be anything except for who I was - and to always be honest to myself. He said that having a great reputation as one of the best was all very well, but that he himself would rather I was a man who had his own flaws and issues, but who also had his own principles and stood by them, because he believed them to be right, than a hero who was too afraid to be anything less than a perfect, shining example. He said that we are all human and, as such, we are all flawed in our own ways. We cannot ignore these flaws, but we can embrace them and accept them, and, ultimately, work on them to ensure that they do not take us over._

_I heeded his first two points, Albus, and heeded them well. However, the third was my downfall. My love showed me such unconditional devotion that I thought there was nothing I could do that could cause him to question me. I was wrong - I was so wrong. While he did say that his love for me was true and would remain so eternally, he had many harsh words for me, about my behaviour and my character - words that cut through me as a knife cuts through cotton._

_I knew that no words from family or friend could ever hurt half as much as they did when they came from him. And why was this? Because when he spoke, he made no concessions. He spoke plainly and without mercy. He spoke the entire truth in a way that I am sure no one else would have dared to. His words pierced my soul and shook my entire being._

_But then, I made a terrible mistake. Rather than admitting my guilt and striving to do better, I masked my pain with anger and scorn. I sent my love into a fight that was not his and in doing so, I condemned him. My pride was too great, Albus, my ego too strong. But I only realised this when it was far too late. And that is why I find that the rebuke of a lover causes the greatest hurt and the deepest shame - because they choose you in the way friends and family do not. And if you let them down, you prove yourself unworthy of their faith in you._

_I find your considerations on Achilles fascinating. Upon reflection, it is true that many of his actions, in particular denying his beloved Patroclus a proper funeral for so long, are not the actions of a man worthy of being called a hero. Of course, the men who lived in such a time as he did may not have seen it as such. The focus instead would have been on his triumph over Hector and his unrivalled prowess on the battlefield. However, I feel that your words are true - there is indeed a tragic element to his actions. He did lose sight of what was important and I think that, in the end, his ambition and desire for greatness overwhelmed him, which ultimately led to his death._

_I wonder, Albus - how would you remember Achilles? Was he a great warrior, and a brave one? Was he a loyal and devoted lover and comrade? Or was he a man who had so much pride and wrath that he allowed it to consume him? Who do you believe him to be? And do you think he would wish to be remembered in such a way?_

_Yours - Gellert._

As Albus finished reading, he noticed that the temperature in his room had dropped considerably and his sweat-drenched nightshirt was now sticking to him with an uncomfortable chill. Hastily, he closed the windows and changed into fresh night-clothes before settling back down into bed, now deeply thankful for the covers he had carelessly tossed onto the floor.

Just as he was starting to fall asleep, he glanced once again at Gellert’s letter. This time, it took the shape of a fabulous phoenix, with long tail feathers and bright eyes that stared directly at him.

Albus chuckled to himself. “Well, I suppose I have been waiting for someone like you for some time.”

He blew out the candle and lay down again. Sleep was now coming quickly, but just before his eyes closed completely, he could have sworn he heard the phoenix chirp.

~*~

_Six weeks later…_

Albus was no stranger to disturbed sleep. He had often woken up several times during the night to finish a novel or a tale that he just had to find out the ending to, or to add a few extra sentences to his homework, or even to make completely certain he had gotten his facts completely correct. Elphias had always teased him for being a neurotic night owl and wondered how he did not fall face first into his cauldron from lack of sleep. Albus had laughed it off, partly because he knew his friend was right, but also because he hated the idea that Elphias might know the real truth about why he tried to stay awake at night.

Ever since that fateful day when his family had been torn apart, Albus had been plagued by nightmares. Sometimes, he heard Ariana’s painful cries for help and the cold, cruel laughter of her tormentors. Every time he tried to rescue her, but every time he was too late. Sometimes, she would be curled up, shaking and whimpering, flinching away from anyone who tried to touch her – just as had happened in reality. But on other, terrifying, occasions, Albus would be too late. Then, he would see her lying motionless on the ground, her eyes blank and unseeing, as though a deadly mist had descended over her.

It was worse when his dreams reminded him of the day that his father was arrested and taken away to Azkaban. The scene would always play out in exactly the same way, but that never made it any easier to witness. He could never get used to seeing the look of despair and anguish in his father’s face as he tried to plead for mercy, to state his defence, only for the Aurors to force him to the ground and put him in handcuffs. Those were the nights he would wake up with his heart pounding and his fists clenched in fury as he remembered the cold and unyielding faces of the Aurors, utterly indifferent to the cries of his family.

But this summer, things were different. It was not nightmares that kept him awake and his thoughts racing, but his dreams were very strange. For one thing, he had seen no people in them, but he could hear snippets of conversation. These were often interspersed with the sounds of laughter or swimming or even sparring. Yet, when he tried to investigate further, he constantly found himself alone. But he knew that there had been someone there, someone waiting for him. He might not be sure how he knew this, but he did know; he was certain of it. There was a presence there; something, or someone, waiting and longing for him, just as they had for so long.

He also paid close attention to his surroundings, searching through the mountainous forests and sun-drenched beaches for clues. He explored every hidden cave, every forest path and rocky pool, but came up with nothing. He was so sure, though, that he recognised all these places, but he could not draw the names from his recollections. It was almost as if the memories were right there and all he had to do was let them back in. But there was always something stopping him, something that did not want him to remember, not just yet. The time was coming, his thoughts told him. He was close, very close, but he was not quite there yet.

As frustrating as the dreams might be, however, Albus would always wake up in the morning feeling safe and loved, as though a protector had taken it upon himself to watch over him and guide him. But whereas in the past he would certainly have rebelled against such a thing, now he accepted it happily. He knew that it was something to do with Gellert, and he welcomed any opportunity that brought them closer together, until the day came that they might finally meet.

If his mysterious dreams made Albus’ nights bearable, then his and Gellert’s correspondence brought light even to his darkest days. Their letters flew on eager wings between Godric’s Hollow and wherever Gellert’s home was day after day, night after night.

Albus had to admit that his curiosity still ached at not knowing who, or what, delivered their letters to each other, or where Gellert even was. Still, every time he saw a new folded piece of parchment or another tightly wrapped scroll waiting for him, he could not deny that his mood became lighter and his day a little brighter.

They would talk about almost anything. From lengthy discussions on literature, art, philosophy and, of course, aspects of magic, it seemed as though there was nothing they could not turn into a scintillating discussion. They did not always agree, but Albus liked that even more. He did not wish for Gellert to blindly follow his lead as so many others had; it would not have been in his character to do so, any more than it was in Albus’ character to agree unquestioningly with Gellert. They both were happy to take up a challenge and invited fierce and fascinating debate when they did so. Albus in particular loved how Gellert would argue his points, passionately and yet so articulately that he was often left astounded and speechless. It spurred him on, pushed him to think beyond what he had learned during his seven years at Hogwarts, and to form his own opinions of the world. As Gellert had once said, learning solely from books was all very well, but only up to a certain point. Ultimately, it was up to Albus to do his own exploration and research and to form his own thoughts and opinions. He had a brilliant and vibrant mind, Gellert told him, but he had to use it, otherwise it would end up going to waste.

Albus had taken those words to heart. He had looked back over everything he had been taught, all the tales and legends he had poured over, and read them once again with fresh eyes, looking for any ideas and symbolism that he might not have noticed before. It was refreshing and exhilarating in a way that he would never have believed. Discussing alchemy with the likes of Nicholas Flamel was one thing. This…this was so different. He felt as though he had found something for himself, that he was a pioneer out on a voyage of great new discoveries.

He was just in the middle of responding to Gellert’s analysis of what the Deathly Hallows might really represent, when the door to his bedroom flew open and Aberforth barged in, his arms folded and a scowl adorning his already sour face.

“I have had enough,” he announced, sitting down in a chair and dragging Albus’ chair around to face him. “Do you understand? Enough!”

“Ah, good afternoon, brother,” Albus replied. “And what, exactly, have you had enough of, may I ask?”

“You may indeed ask, though your sarcasm shows just how utterly little you care for the answer.” Aberforth scoffed. “Have you forgotten that you are not the only one who matters anymore? I know that you have an exceptionally brilliant mind, and you did things with a wand that had never been seen before, but none of that is important! Our mother is dead, Albus! Your achievements are meaningless – you have a duty to us!”

“They mean something to me,” Albus retorted. “I am proud of what I have achieved. Yes, I might have had advantages in terms of my magical and intellectual prowess, but do not think for an instant that any part of my life was easy.”

“Oh?” Aberforth raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? Because, from where I am sitting, you are sat here day after day writing letter upon letter. Who you write to I do not know, but your life looks damn easy to me. Here – let’s see what you’re up to!” He grabbed the partially written letter off Albus’ desk and began to read it out loud. “’Goodness me, Gellert! I have never considered such a perspective on the Hallows before. I will not say that it does not have merit, however –”

“Leave it alone!” Albus lunged at his brother and managed to grab the letter off him. He folded it up and sealed it away in his pocket. But by then, Aberforth had started playing with the small models that had been formed from Gellert’s previous letters.

“Stop it!” he ordered, trying to drag his brother away. “That is private - it’s none of your concern!”

“Of course it is!” Aberforth shot back. “Whatever this nonsense is, it’s interfering with your already limited ability to do your duty and take care of the house and your family! We should come first, before any of your fantastical delusions of grandeur!” He straightened up and pulled out his wand, pointing it towards the models. “INCEND -”

“Don’t you dare!” A shockingly feral screech erupted from Albus’ lips as, once again, he leapt at his brother. He knocked Aberforth’s wand out of his hand and pushed him to the floor, pinning him down. “Don’t you touch them!” He dodged a punch thrown clumsily in his direction and grabbed Aberforth’s flailing wrist. “You disrespectful Neanderthal!” he panted. “Who do you think you are?”

“I…am your brother!” Aberforth jerked himself free, grabbing onto Albus’ hair and dragging him towards the door. “And you need to treat me like it!”

“What?!” Albus stood up and gave Aberforth a shove back into the hallway. “How dare you…I am doing the best I can, but you are making it impossible!” He drew a long breath, his magic crackling around him, fanning the flames of his fury. “I have tried so damn hard to keep us safe and happy and together since Mum died! I have picked up the pieces of your messes again and again for years, but it has never, ever been good enough for you, has it?”

“You?!” Aberforth spat out a bitter laugh. “What it’s been…shit, Albus, how can you be so selfish?”

“I’m being selfish?!” Albus spluttered. “What about you? You stood there, you and Mum, and acted like you knew what was best for Ariana! But how was this,” he threw his arm out, “any different to what those bastards at the Ministry would have done? All you did was hide her away and use this house as her prison! You didn’t even let her say goodbye to her own mother! How do you think that made her feel, Aberforth? How would it have made you feel if you had been in her position?”

“I did what I had to do to keep her safe, just like Mum did!” Aberforth shouted. “No, it wasn’t easy, but it had to be done!”

“Is that so?” Albus shook his head. “Well, perhaps you should have been the one to go through what she did! Then you might have some understanding and empathy for how she feels!”

Aberforth’s eyes went very wide and he stared at Albus in shock. He worked his mouth back and forth a few times, but no words came out, only harsh breaths.

Slowly, he approached Albus, never letting his gaze drop. He looked as though he was going to speak again, but then his face flushed scarlet with anger and he grabbed Albus and dragged him across the hall and towards the stairs, digging his nails into Albus’ arms and shaking him as though he was nothing more than a rag doll.

“Take that back!” he roared as he flew forwards to rain punches down anywhere that was within his reach.

“Never!” Albus retorted as he tried to throw him off. “I might not know how she feels, but you are a blind fool if you think you do!” He grabbed onto Aberforth’s hair and pulled hard, adrenaline now rushing through his veins. “I always thought that no one in the world deserved the fate that Ariana has, but out of all of us, I wish that it had happened to you instead!”

With those words, both boys finally gave into the anger and resentment that they had held onto for so many years. Albus did not hear a single word that Aberforth might have thrown at him, or anything he himself might have said in reply. He felt his fist slam into Aberforth’s nose and relished the sound of the bone cracking, even as his own arm was grabbed and painfully twisted behind his back.

It was clear that only something truly shocking could have stopped the two warring brothers - and thus it came. Just as Aberforth was about to slam Albus into the floor, a piercing shriek and a thumping crash ripped through the air. Both brothers froze at the sound, Albus dropping to the ground as Aberforth’s grip went slack. He blinked and slowly turned his aching muscles to see what had happened.

As his vision began to come back into focus, he was drawn to something at the bottom of the stairs. At first, he could not tell what it was, but then his brother darted past him with a cry of horror, and knelt down on the floor, gathering it into his arms.

Slowly, Albus followed him down and, as he did so, the remaining disorientation faded away, clarity chilling him like a shard of ice to the heart as he saw it. The figure, lying in Aberforth’s arms, had long golden hair cascading over her blue dress. A gash was bleeding on her forehead and the blood ran down her face like tears pouring from her lifeless blue eyes.

He almost fell down the last three steps and stumbled into the wall, clutching his heart. He met Aberforth’s eyes - and instantly, he knew. Their family was gone, shattered beyond repair. Albus had lost his sister and now he knew that he no longer had a brother.

No words were spoken between the pair. They were not needed. Instead, Albus turned on his heel and left the house. The moment he closed the door behind him, he knew that he would never return, that it was no longer his home.

Without giving it very much thought, Albus started towards Bathilda’s house, certain that she would know what to do. However, he had only gone a few steps before a large skeletal-looking black horse swooped down and landed in front of him, bowing its head to him. Albus stepped back and was about to go around the Thestral to get to his destination, but then something moving caught his eye. Frowning, he glanced up - and choked back a cry of shock when he saw all his little models, even the crumpled and ragged rose, floating behind the Thestral. The dragon and the phoenix were even pausing to pet the horse affectionately.

Albus felt his mouth go dry. “Gell...Gellert?” he whispered. “Is that...is that you?”

The Thestral blinked and stared at him almost contemptuously, shaking its head. Then, it knelt down and made a motion towards him, indicating that he wanted him to get on his back.

“Oh.” Albus nodded, blushing slightly at his mistake. Knowing that he had nothing left to lose, he did not hesitate before climbing onto the Thestral’s back and holding on. “Take me to Gellert.”

The winged horse let out an amused-sounding huff and then took off, soaring through the air. Within minutes, Godric’s Hollow was far beneath them, nothing more than an expanse of green with tiny dots marking out the houses and trees.

They left England behind and flew south across the Channel, then on towards the warm sweet waters of the Mediterranean. Albus watched, entranced, as the landscape grew increasingly wild and unruly the further east they travelled. Rugged mountains pierced the gossamer thin clouds and rolling hills shone bright and beautiful, their golden grass glowing beneath the bright summer sun. 

It was sunset before the Thestral began its descent. It soared over the sea, inland towards a high mound in the middle of a vast and dry patch of land. A few small bushes grew around it, but otherwise there were no signs of life at all. Not even the birds could be seen, nor could their singing be heard.

If Albus had thought his heart had ached at the sight of Ariana lying dead on the floor, then he was sure that this was what a shattering heart felt like. Almost blinded by his tears, he made his way towards the sandy mound and stared, breathless, at it. He remembered seeing this place in his dreams and feeling the ache of longing that surrounded it, but even that could not have prepared him for the real thing.

Not understanding where his certainty had come from, but knowing beyond any doubt that it was the right thing to do, Albus took out his wand and made a single cut across his palm. When the blood had flowed up to the surface, he took a deep breath and rested his palm against the mound.

It was as if something inside had been brought back to life. Thousands of tiny flames lit up all over and around the mound, bathing it in a warm golden glow. At the same time, a balmy breeze whipped through Albus’ hair, carrying with it that same song that he had heard over again in his dreams. He stepped back and watched, astounded, as a figure passed slowly through the mound and came to stand before them. He was tall and well-built with soft golden curls spilling over his shoulders and across his face, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes. One was a pale silver grey and the other a dark blue, the shade of a midnight ocean. He was dressed in robes of deep turquoise shot with golden threads and gathered at the waist with an elaborately decorated belt.

He approached them slowly, speaking to the Thestral first. “It is good to see you again, Xanthus, my loyal friend of so many years.” His voice was rich and musical, almost echoing in the emptiness around them. Then he turned to Albus and, as he did so, his eyes began to shimmer as though a rain-filled cloud had passed over them.

“At last.” This time, the words were little more than a whisper. “After so long...I confess I feared that you might never come to me.”

“Gellert.” Albus’ voice caught in his throat. “Are...are you a ghost?”

“I suppose I must be,” said Gellert. “I am a spirit who has lived so many lifetimes and died so many deaths. Now, I linger between the land of the living and of the dead, waiting and hoping for the day when I might once again be worthy of your love.”

He walked slowly towards Albus, his footsteps entirely silent, though the ground was hard. “It is time, my beloved. Finally, it is time for you to truly know me - and, in the end, to know yourself as well. Will you allow me to show you, to remind you? I swear, no harm will come to you.”

“Yes.” Albus nodded. “Show me.”

He half closed his eyes as Gellert came closer and, so gently that Albus could barely feel it, he brushed their lips together. 

In that moment, it felt as though Albus had finally woken up after an eternity of sleep. The wall that had held his memories back came tumbling down and he finally saw and understood it all. He saw the first time the two of them met as youths when he had been exiled from his homeland following a tragic and terrible accident. He watched as they grew up together, laughed together, swam and sparred together, their bond growing and blossoming by the day until finally they were almost impossible to separate.

But then came the greatest test of their young lives. War raged around them for nine long years. Their deeds were many and valiant and they fought together side by side, their loyalty unyielding. No one had seen a bond as strong as this - they were more than comrades, closer than brothers - and yet there was not a name that could be put to it. Lovers, partners, nothing seemed to fit. What they felt for each other went so much deeper, so much further, than any words.

And yet, a dark cloud had been gathering in the background and now it was beginning to hover over them. It grew larger and darker during the tenth and final year of the war. Though their devotion to each other never waned, the strain of their situation had begun to take a heavy toll on them. It was the beginning of the end, though neither of them wished to admit it, until it was too late.

Eventually, the scenes faded and he was brought back to the tomb of his love once again. But now, he was different. Now he knew just who he was. He stared at the young man in front of him. “Is it really you?” he asked. “Is it Achilles? After waiting so many years and living so many lives, has your Patroclus finally found you? No,” he shook his head, “you do not need to answer me. I know it is indeed the truth. But where have you been? Why could we not find each other? Were we not buried together, my ashes with your ashes and my bones with your bones?”

“Yes.” Gellert sighed. “Yes we were. But the gods judge us harshly and they did not view my actions as heroic in the way that others of our time did. What I did in my life, especially my deeds following your death, were judged by the gods as false and selfish bravery. I was deemed unworthy of my title as a hero and, more importantly, undeserving of the love you gave me. Though our remains rested together for eternity, our spirits were condemned to be separated until my penance was judged to be complete. Only then could we be reunited.”

“And now that we are, I do not ever wish to be parted from you again,” said Albus, the words flowing past his lips almost before he could think them. “There must be another way for us to be together.”

“There is a way, yes.” Gellert extended his hand. “Are you sure that this is what you want? To go with me and stay with me rather than continue to live and see the world just as you always wished to? If you do this, there can be no turning back.”

“I am sure.” The question did not need to be considered. “Show me.”

“Very well. Take my hand.”

Albus did so, gently pressing his still bloodied palm against Gellert’s. As their fingers began to slowly tangle together, a ball of silver light floated above their heads, spinning around faster and faster until it was almost invisible to the naked eye. Albus watched, transfixed, as from the ball of light there blossomed a single pendant, elaborately wrought from the finest silver. In the centre, there sat a single gemstone, as bright as a star, and yet filled with the vibrancy and colours of the rainbow.

Gellert opened his eyes and swallowed. “An eternal troth,” he said. “A blessing and a bond that transcends life and death, only gifted to those whose love can be deemed unbreakable.” He stroked the pendant. “We are now bound together, Albus, both in body and in soul. Nothing, not even Tartarus itself, can part us any longer.”

“Together?” Albus looked up through a mist of tears. “After...after all this time?”

Gellert nodded. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, Albus and Gellert are Patroclus and Achilles reincarnated! (Also, if you don’t know, Xanthus is Achilles’ horse and is also a Seer!)
> 
> Hope I filled the prompt okay!


End file.
